Take the Gun, Pull the Trigger, Can You Do It?
by iUnforgivable
Summary: He would let himself say this sinful name one last time, before his right to do so disappears into the thin black night air. He grips the gun tightly and points toward the sleeping figure. Good night and good bye. 10051. T for blood/violence. 2-shot.
1. Chapter 1

**Take the Gun, Pull the Trigger, Can You Do It?**

"_The gun is a pretty metal thing, trembling in your loose grip, as it waits for the bloodlust."_

It's night. The moon is above, shining down, as he prowled through the room. His steps are light, his steps are silent, his steps are agile.

The silence, it was a golden thing, as he softly turned the doorknob and stepped right in. The world is silent, everyone is asleep, dreaming of a world much nicer than reality. Except for the boy, that orange-haired boy, with his hands trembling on a pretty metal thing, loaded with metal darts. His presence brought back the truth of the world, the harsh reality. His world is different from the one everyone sees, the night is loud. The night is filled with the sound of his heartbeat, and the sound of sweat dripping through his hair, and sliding down into his shirt.

The metal is wet, he notices. It is covered with his sweat, but he imagines that it's blood, with the rest of the red liquid painted throughout the room.

He moves toward a snoring figure, and he loads more bullets. More and more, they clatter onto the ground, one by one, and he stands still trembling, shivering, losing control.

"Clam down.." he mutters to himself.

He then studies the room, painted all white, for an exit. His hand scans through the walls, brushing them slightly, then he walks toward the windows. The night is black, pure black, with no moon in the sky, the stars sleeping along with everyone below. The room is nicely decorated, the furniture all white, with a circular area raised up in the middle. A luxurious black metal bed is placed right on top of it, it surveys the room like how a king surveys his people.

Standing close by to the window, hanging on to it like a lifeline, the boy aims the deadly metal, and his finger move towards the trigger. It shakes furiously before landing itself onto the trigger. He pulls it.

In the pure darkness of that night, one would hear a single bullet shot ring throughout the night air, piercing through the silence, before it fades back down.

The boy looked at the bed. He waited for that pool of blood, that red liquid flowing down, dripping everywhere, staining his target's pure white hair red. But that relief did not come. He stared accusingly at the stack of bullets on the ground. He didn't load it.

"S-shou-chan?" his target asks, as he slowly drags himself up and turns to look at the intruder of his peaceful sleep.

The boy panicked.

"Uhh--uhh, ummmm, I couldn't sleep…" he mumbled. His hands quickly stuffed his weapon into his pocket, and hoped that his white-haired target wouldn't notice the stack of bullets at the corner of his room. He knew they stood out against the pure white of the room. Was that the reason why the room was designed to be so eerily white?

His target laughed casually, oh how the sweating boy wished he could do so too, and said,

"Shou-chan's been watching horror movies again?"

The boy grabbed at the excuse and nodded his head vigorously in agreement.

"Does Shou-chan want to sleep with me?~" his target asked, teasing lightly.

"….Maybe." he murmured.

His target moved towards him and grabbed on the wrist. The boy couldn't help but twitch. He hoped that the person that was now dragging him across the room, didn't notice. The white-haired man made no sign of noticing the boy twitching under his grip, and the boy slowly and gently relaxed, and followed the man willingly.

The bed sheets were soft, inviting, and warm. It was a human's heat, not ice cold nor blaring hot, a mixture of the two, like heated milk on a cold, freezing, winter's day, where windows had frost on them. How nice.

And on that moment, the boy dared to yearn for a good slumber. Amongst the scattered white bed sheets and puffy blankets, in the tempting darkness during the night where a star joined everyone to sleep. And in the embrace of human, and their heat.

But he had a job. And the world's fate rested at his hands, his fingers on a gun's death trigger. As his target climbed up onto the bed along him, his hands felt at his leather brown belt nested between his shirt and his pants. He grasped the pounds of metal at his side, and silently slid it off as his sweat did the same.

"Good night, Shou-chan."

Silence then proceeded. This time, the boy made sure his gun was loaded with bullets, so that if he happened to miss at _this_ distance, he could shoot until his target was full of holes and leaking of blood that would flood the whole room as he stood on that little podium, like the king. _He_, and he only, would live, in that silent white room along with the innocent white flowers beside the window, staring out into the night sky. Those flowers that stood among the red, oblivious to it's bloody surroundings, what a life the boy wished he could also live.

"Good night, Byakuran." He would let himself say _this_ sinful name one last time, before his right to do so disappears into the thin black night air. He grips the gun tightly and points toward the sleeping figure.

"And, good bye."

A/N: Overused concept is overused concept. D; Reborn isn't happy with my creative juices. DX


	2. Chapter 2

**Take the Gun, Pull the Trigger, Can You Do It?**

"_You've grabbed the gun, yet you can't shoot it. What are you going to do?"_

There was silence. Plenty silence. The boy still couldn't shoot. His hands were still trembling like he was thrown out into the mountain during winter, even though his body was producing a lot of sweat. The man didn't speak, his eyes didn't even widen, he was just looking at the boy casually. Did he expect this?

"Good bye." he said again, and this time he shot. Another gunshot rang across the silent town.

The bullet didn't make it. It flew toward the wall and landed on one of the bookshelves, as the books tumbled down. Shou-chan flinched, it reminded him of all the bullets he had dropped, target after target, yet after, the blood of his target would stain the carpets, yet this target, this target only, was special.

"Now, where did Shou-chan get that gun?" Byakuran asked like he was questioning a child who was misbehaving.

He shot again, it missed.

Byakuran then sat up and gripped the boy's wrist tightly, so tight that his skin was turning white like snow.

"Answer me, Shou-chan." he said strictly, with his face all serious. "where did you get that gun?"

the misbehaving boy panicked with a look of sadness on his face, like he was afraid of losing Byakuran's trust, if he hadn't already lost it from the bullets that laid on the pretty white carpet floor, as fluffy as the owner's hair.

The boy tried struggle out of the tight grip, and turned his pitiful expression to one of hatred, yet he failed horribly, and his mouth was turned slightly into a frown. His hand dropped the gun, and the target continued to question him, like a cop and a criminal.

"Shou-chan. Where did you get that gun?"

The pressure was heavy, it hung on their shoulders, the air feeling like smoke. Silent, small breaths turned into heavy, loud gasps, and the cold air from outside collided with the hot steamy atmosphere from the room. It felt like a ossen inside there, except that the air was also occupied by deathly bloodlust. Yes, the boy was really going to shoot, and shoot until the bullets got tired, and they all withered away. His thoughts were bloody, brutal, violent, and cruel.

"Is Shou-chan trying to kill me?" the white-haired man than asked with his creepy smile. The boy didn't like that smile. A smile that means "I know what you're thinking."

He then sighed in fake relief and he softly said, "But you know, I think Shou-chan doesn't have the guts to do so."

The boy stared at him with fake hate, and mustered all his strength and said sternly,

"Let go of my wrist."

"Oooo, Shou-chan's so scary, I'm frightened!" he said mockingly, and he raised his hands up like he was surrendering and dropped the frustrated boy's hand.

The boy quickly grabbed up the gun and positioned it quickly, the bullet should, and would, hit the man's heart right through. Silent and painful death. Perfection.

Being used to pulling the trigger by now, he only hesitated a second, and had pulled the trigger without any shaking or sweating.

He would have made it. Had not his target muttered to himself,

"I doubt you would make it, Shou-chan~"

The boy's eyes widened quite a bit and his hand slid down and shot the bed sheets, instead of the intended human.

Byakuran smirked slightly, and then pulled his face close to the shaking boy's and asked,

"Why can't you shoot me? Shoot me! Try shoot me! Can you do it? Can you say good bye?!"

"Who said I can't shoot you?! I want to shoot you! Why won't you be shot? Go die, Byakuran!" the boy replied back with burning eyes.

Silence, and then a evil laugh, followed by a soft,

"Shoot me."

"My pleasure."

Again a gunshot ran out, and a little boy muttered in his sleep, wondering if the gunshots were coming from the baby that slept in a hammock.

It missed. Again. It flew right above his head, and ended up embedded deeply inside the white wooden table.

He shot, and shot, and shot, yet one never made it's target, even though the target was moving.

The boy let go of the gun and gripped the other's shirt tightly, the fabric twisting under the boy's sweaty hands.

"I don't…want to shoot you." he then shoved his head in the other's white shirt, and said,

"Please don't make me."

The other gently put his hand on the other's orange hair, and patted him softly.

"Who bullied my Shou-chan?"

No words, just sounds of crying and meek sniffing, and tightened hands.

Byakuran's face was dark. Eyebrows tilted slightly, lips in a deep frown, and eyes with glaring murdering intent.

"He's going to die." he murmured.

* * *

10 years later, with birds chirping, and a bright shining sun, a white-haired man with a face of disdain held a newspaper in his pale hand. Grey words on it matched the scenery of the room that the man sat in with the same colored outfit, grey and bland. On the side of that grey paper, tucked in with all the other words surrounding it, a death was announced. A young man, with brown hair and the same color eyes that always held a determined look. A mafia boss that sat in a black leather chair and wore a orange suit. And on his desk, his small baby tutor, an yellow pacifier hung around his neck, and a top hat that sat on his head. Both that suffered the same fate. Born to suffer the fate, the day an orange-haired young boy with greenish blue glasses came tumbling into a man's room, armed with a flimsy gun and mountain load of precise metal bullets.

The day, when the sound of bullets filled the night air and in a white room somewhere, an sweating boy fell asleep amongst white fluffy pillows and blankets along with a white haired man who bore a purple tattoo on his face.

_"I can't shoot."_


End file.
